The slow, cold German-Swiss at the other tables looked at
them occasionally. The landlord, with his crazed, stretched eyes, glared
at them with hatred. But they fetched their beer from the bar with easy
familiarity, and sat at their table, creating a bonfire of life in the
callousness of the inn.
At last they finished their beer and trooped off down the passage. The
room was painfully empty. I did not know what to do.
Then I heard the landlord yelling and screeching and snarling from the
kitchen at the back, for all the world like a mad dog. But the Swiss
Saturday evening customers at the other tables smoked on and talked in
their ugly dialect, without trouble. Then the landlady came in, and soon
after the landlord, he collarless, with his waistcoat unbuttoned,
showing his loose throat, and accentuating his round pot-belly. His
limbs were thin and feverish, the skin of his face hung loose, his eyes
glaring, his hands trembled. Then he sat down to talk to a crony. His
terrible appearance was a fiasco; nobody heeded him at all, only the
landlady was surly.
From the back came loud noises of pleasure and excitement and banging
about.
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